Running The Books : The Adventures Of An Accidental Prison Librarian Part 4

But Solitary seemed bored. After cla.s.s, she walked past me and muttered, "Sorry." "For what?" I asked. She shrugged. She was just sorry. That was it.

She was perhaps apologizing for her lack of interest. Her indifference had irked me, but I forgave it. In general, if an inmate was just looking to escape the prison unit, that was fine by me. As far as I was concerned, nothing good ever came from staying on the unit. But still, I had to run a cla.s.s. If I let one inmate isolate herself and stare out the window, I would have trouble keeping order with the rest.

It didn't take long for the window gazing to become a problem.

"Why does she she get to sit by the window?" complained Brutish. get to sit by the window?" complained Brutish.

"The only reason she want to be there is to look at the dudes"-in the prison yard below-"so she's got something to remember later..." said Nasty, making an appropriately nasty gesture.

Brutish smiled, "Yeah, yeah! yeah! That's what I'm talking 'bout! I wanna look out the window too!" That's what I'm talking 'bout! I wanna look out the window too!"

Poor, the group's unofficial spokeswoman, mournfully laid out the terms of an offer. "How about you let us stare out the window for the first five minutes of cla.s.s? We'll pay attention more."

I considered this for a split second. "No," I said. Even after a few sessions I already had enough experience to know that the opposite was true. If they stared out the window, they'd be distracted and gossipy for the remainder of the period.

"d.a.m.n," said Short, crossing her little arms. "I know you ain't a bad dude, but you done had a cold-heart transplant."

I couldn't have said it better myself. After this conversation, of course, I had to pull Solitary into the circle, away from the window. But now, staring at the window from the other side of the room, or perhaps at the blank sky, she grew even more distant.

As usual, she walked past me after cla.s.s and mumbled an abstract apology. She skipped the next cla.s.s to "meet with her lawyer." And the one after that, for a visit (an unlikely occurrence at that hour). Then she had to go to the infirmary; then she had to take a shower. The excuses were getting weaker. She didn't show for weeks. I removed her name from the roster. I was inclined to hunt her down, but decided to lay off. From the outset, she hadn't been interested and frankly only hurt what little morale existed in the cla.s.s. Without her we had now upgraded to "poor, nasty, brutish, and short." Perhaps this was progress.

Ever since she'd skipped out of the cla.s.s, Solitary had also quit visiting the library. It was a shame. But that's how it went. Everything in prison was personal, especially for the women, many of whom were borderline personalities: they either loved you or hated you, and they a.s.sumed you operated the same way. She believed that she had to lay low and avoid me. And so, one of her few outlets in prison, the library, was now off-limits. I sent a message to her through a semi-reliable inmate: she shouldn't hesitate to come down to the library on my account, I wasn't mad at her and she wouldn't get in any trouble. I sent the same message through a caseworker, to no avail.

But among the women inmates there were no secrets. It was inevitable that I'd learn the truth about Ms. Solitary.

The Day to Day The prison library was a lending library. Inmates were permitted to check out no more than three books at one time. With each checkout, they were issued a receipt that doubled as a contract obligating them to return the item. But we rarely levied fines for late or unreturned books. This was another dangerous liberalization of Amato's regime.

It wasn't mere carelessness on our part. In prison it was simply too common for checked-out books to disappear-either removed by a vindictive or indifferent officer or stolen by a fellow inmate. Fining for lost books would discourage even honest people from borrowing them. And, ironically, the prison library-whose clientele included the largest concentration of thieves of any library in the world-lacked an alarm system. In short, we operated on the miserable premise that every book on our shelves would eventually turn into prison fodder.

The library offered both paperbacks and hardcovers. Patti insisted that we had permission to lend out hardcover books but many officers fervently disagreed. An officer walked into the library one day and gasped when he saw shelves piled high with hardcovers, which could be turned into weapons.

"Are you kidding kidding me?" he'd said. "You can't give these out." me?" he'd said. "You can't give these out."

In many prisons this was true. For reasons that were never clear, however, this facility permitted it. At the same time, the administration neglected to put the policy into print, so it remained open for debate. Officers often saw this gray area as license to confiscate and, in many cases, dispose of books. This was an ongoing struggle.

Other policies were much more clear. Inmates could buy books by mail order, but only direct from publishers. No books could arrive in prison from private addresses. Prison regulations permitted inmates no more than six books in their cells. Inmates who ordered books often had to get rid of old books in order to keep the number under six. Some inmates sold their books to other inmates-an illegal transaction-some donated them to the library.

The library had a tiny budget. For bureaucratic reasons we weren't permitted to buy from cheap online booksellers. Forest and I poached yard sales, laundromats, and used bookstores. Usually at our own expense. The major source of books was random individuals who arbitrarily showed up with giant s.h.i.+pments. These reliable donors were an a.s.sortment of hippies covered in dog hair, smiling evangelicals, and local oddb.a.l.l.s, who did things like give you an unsolicited thirty-minute lecture on the intricacies of the formal j.a.panese bow ("it's a lot like setting up a golf swing"), and then peer-pressured you into an embarra.s.singly elaborate bowing ceremony in front of the prison, in the presence of coworkers on their smoke breaks. But I was very grateful for the earnest efforts of these donors. When they dropped off their payloads, Forest and I enjoyed an out-of-season Christmas.

In prison, where scarcity is the norm and owners.h.i.+p is limited to a paltry few items, books themselves began to take on more functions. There seemed to be endless ways to use books. Hardcover books could be fas.h.i.+oned into body armor. Placed in a bag and wielded as a battle flail. Taped together and used as weights. Used to hide contraband. Books could be mined for paper or ill.u.s.trations, or used to help prop things up around the cell. And for all of these functions, books became an item for barter.

One woman confided that she kept a book in bed with her while she slept. Its presence comforted her.

Some people even used books to read. For education, entertainment, therapy, a way of making sense of the world. Sitting at the library's circulation desk, I saw more than one woman on the verge of tears while checking out a favorite children's book that she hadn't seen in years-Charlotte's Web or or Curious George Curious George. For many in prison, childhood memories were very difficult or nonexistent.

Book lending was also a means of communication with another person. An argument over a political or religious issue often resulted in inmates, and sometimes staff, drawing up reading lists for each other-often on the spot and in a huff-as a means of setting the other straight. In my first week, an inmate named Robert Jordan, upset by something I had said, told me he wouldn't speak to me until I read The Souls of Black Folk The Souls of Black Folk by W. E. B. DuBois. I told him I'd already read it. by W. E. B. DuBois. I told him I'd already read it.

"Read it again," he told me. "'Cause you missed the whole point."

The next time he came in, he brought the book with him and put it directly in my hands. I realized that he wasn't asking me to understand DuBois but to understand something about him, Robert Jordan. I read it again, in this light. And since we were going to let our books do the talking, I gave him a similar reading a.s.signment, Kafka's "The Animal in the Synagogue," a story about a mysterious dusty blue-green creature that has taken up residence in the balcony of a decaying synagogue. Needless to say, a favorite of mine.

I had many similar conversations-through-books with inmates. Much of my own reading came by way of these a.s.signments. As a result, I found myself reading a lot of conspiracy theorists.

But for the most part, prison library reading tastes tended to match those of the wider American population. We had a shelf for Oprah's Book Club selections. James Patterson, Dan Brown, James Frey books rarely lasted more than fifteen minutes. In order to keep an eye on them, we kept these popular t.i.tles displayed behind the counter. Inmates also loved reading books on real estate and starting small businesses. There were other, less concrete interests. Books on dream interpretation were wildly popular-this is actually an ancient prison genre: in the Bible, Joseph makes a name for himself by interpreting fellow prisoners' dreams. Given their unfortunate present circ.u.mstances, prisoners have a special investment in future events. Astrology books were also much desired. After the ex-inmate mugged me-and boasted that he still had two books out-I checked to see just which Latino man, roughly five-foot-ten, recently released, still had two books due. It turns out that this profile fit one man, a certain Ernesto Casanova. And the two books he owed: Introduction to Astrology Introduction to Astrology and and The Astrology of Human Relations.h.i.+ps The Astrology of Human Relations.h.i.+ps.

The true crime genre was, obviously, also a favorite. I was asked for true crime books on a daily basis. From the wide a.s.sortment of small-time Machiavellis I got regular requests for The Art of War The Art of War by Sun Tzu and by Sun Tzu and The Forty-Eight Laws of Power The Forty-Eight Laws of Power by Robert Greene. Thanks to slain rapper Tupac Shakur, a.k.a. "Makaveli," I was often asked for books by Niccolo Machiavelli himself. In his song "Tradin War Stories," Tupac breaks it down thus: by Robert Greene. Thanks to slain rapper Tupac Shakur, a.k.a. "Makaveli," I was often asked for books by Niccolo Machiavelli himself. In his song "Tradin War Stories," Tupac breaks it down thus: ...a legend in my own rhymes So n.i.g.g.az whisper when they mention Machiavelli was my tutor The majority of inmates who read The Prince The Prince, however, returned slightly disappointed. The sixteenth-century text wasn't as user-friendly as they'd hoped.

"Urban literature" was another popular genre, but inmates were frustrated that our collection was practically nonexistent. They would complain that the library "didn't have no good books." Standing feet away from shelves that held tens of thousands of books, some inmates would inform me "you guys don't have any any books here." books here."

Eventually I got wise and took advantage of this scarcity. I subtly encouraged the inmates' black market for street books to find a home in the library. If inmates were going to find and read them anyway, they ought to come to the library to do it. As Fat Kat, the former gangster, noted, "We don't want no compet.i.tion out there. We gotta put them out of business." I agreed. When it came to books in prison, we wanted to be the main show in town.

A few times a week, Forest and I would pack a few boxes of paperbacks, newspapers, and magazines onto a pushcart and visit those prison units that weren't permitted to visit the library. The men in the vast federal immigration wing-a giant prison unto itself-the units of pretrial detainees, the infirmary, and New Man, the unit where newly minted inmates were housed until they received their permanent cla.s.sification.

These visits gave us the chance to explore different corners of prison. We would show up at the heavy door of a unit, wave to the officers on duty, wait for an eternity before the door would decide to roll open, then we'd push into the unit and place the goods in the designated spot. The first few times we made deliveries, we arrived when the cells were open and the inmates were roaming around the dayroom.

This was a mistake. There was a palpable air of desperation in these prison units, whose inmates were almost completely cut off from the world. By a force of animal hunger, something like electromagnetism, the inmates would swarm us from all corners. A few would simply start grabbing the items, right out of our hands. It was almost as though they couldn't see us or were looking right through us. They saw only what they wanted and lunged for it. Within seconds we were surrounded on all sides by burly, desperate prison inmates. It put us on edge.

The officers on duty regarded this as hilarious. From afar, it probably was. Without fail, our arrival in New Man was accompanied by a grin from the officer on duty. Before opening the door for us, he'd tap his partner, the international sign for, Hey get a load Hey get a load of this of this...They were never disappointed. Just as we were getting swarmed and gang-mugged the officers would stand at the side with big smiles. One comedian of an officer would begin flapping his arms and screeching like a seagull, caw caw caw caw caw caw. And exclaim loudly, "Look, it's like Revere Beach, the seagulls are coming down, guys!" It was a nasty comment made the more nasty because it had some truth to it. Equally nasty was this officer's suggestion that we walk in and dump the goods onto a table-without even trying to arrange them properly-like a zookeeper dumping feed into a trough.

The word seagull seagull quickly gained currency all over the joint. People would ask us if we "got seagulled today" or warn us, "now don't get seagulled over there." quickly gained currency all over the joint. People would ask us if we "got seagulled today" or warn us, "now don't get seagulled over there."

The short but noteworthy era of seagulling soon ended when we stumbled on the brilliant discovery that we could time our deliveries for those moments when the inmates were locked in. But I did learn an important lesson during one particularly dicey seagulling session. While the officer kept to the side, too busy enjoying the spectacle to help us, I took matters into my own hands. I shouted-something I didn't even know I was capable of doing-and told the inmates in front of me to step away. Now. This was directed at one particularly aggressive inmate. The young con pulled back, crossed his arms, and laughed.

"s.h.i.+t," he said. "Ain't me you got to be worrying about. You got to watch the people behind behind you, man." you, man."

I turned around and saw a group of inmates standing behind me, big s.h.i.+t-eating grins on their faces.

That summed up how I felt during those first weeks. Every time I felt secure that a situation had come into focus, a more important fact, a new grinning variable would tap my shoulder from behind.

The up&up and low lowMars Bar just got to prison; her pregnancy test was positive. s.h.i.+zz, also relatively new to prison, accuses her of having cheated on him with a certain someone."Lady, you know who!" he says.After reminding s.h.i.+zz that he'd been spending a lot of time with his own babymomma, Mars Bar denies his charge, insisting that he, s.h.i.+zz, is the father."Remember the night before you was arrested? Why do you think I TOLD you I was pregnant!"Yes, he remembers. It was a night that started at that Jamaican joint and ended at his crib. His mood changes completely. Suddenly he's thrilled, planning their future, promising to be a better father than Mars Bar's other babydaddy, from whom she kidnapped her oldest son.But then it turns out she's not pregnant.Not long after the pregnancy episode has concluded, Mars Bar accuses s.h.i.+zz of having HIV and not telling her. He becomes furious and demands to know where she heard this. She admits it's a rumor.He promises to produce a doc.u.ment that proves he's HIV-negative and to find the rat who is spreading the rumor. Again, they reconcile and reminisce about the times they used to get f.u.c.ked up, make baked ziti and play video games together.

Every day for nearly a month I tuned into this soap opera-all of which took place inside an ordinary reference book. Using volume 57 of the Federal Reporter Federal Reporter, a bulky series of case law, as their ad hoc mailbox, s.h.i.+zz and Mars Bar, two inmates who never came face-to-face inside the prison, maintained their stormy relations.h.i.+p. The correspondence ended one day, leaving me to wonder what ever became of their complicated romance.

As I made my daily rounds, I discovered notes-sometimes pages long-wedged in books. In an art book, or a guide to women's health, or a giant concordance of Lord Tennyson's works. The denser, the better.

"Ill leave you the next one in the boring books," wrote one inmate to his lady pen pal. He was referring to the Encyclopedia Brittannica Encyclopedia Brittannica.

As I learned from reading them, a prison letter is known as a kite kite. The word appeared everywhere. Stix, a nineteen-year-old first-time convict, always signed off his letters with a promise to "fly ya another kite next week."

I liked the connotation of the word. It was a tidy metaphor for a letter, especially from prison, a precious and precarious little creation, a physical object-unlike most forms of letters today-folded up and sent out into the world for another person to see from afar. Sometimes these letters were addressed to a specific person, sometimes they were left for whomever found them. Often, that person was me.

I didn't always intercept these missives. When a male inmate, who had just entered the prison, broke the news to his sister, an inmate in the tower, that their mother had just died, I obviously wasn't going to remove the letter.

"See lil' sis," he wrote, "you know know you still got me. Don't never forget." you still got me. Don't never forget."

But in general, I treated even the innocuous letters as contraband, as per my job description and Amato's warning to prevent the library from becoming an "anything-goes zone." I made regular searches through the books and shelves, scouring hot spots, keeping an eye out for inmates dropping notes. I checked disks and computer desktops for e-kites. I felt bad tampering with other people's mail. One never knows what's behind even a silly letter, what the context is. Removing letters seemed more of a misdeed than the placing of one.

Secretly, I was grateful for the kites. They taught me a great deal about the language and culture of my workplace. Like actual kites, these notes came in all shapes and sizes. They were some of the best reading on the library shelves. Some were masterpieces of the genre, contenders for the Great American Kite. One guy tried to win back his erstwhile girlfriend by writing in the voice of G.o.d. "Behold," he wrote on page 5, "I give thee today the Blessing and the Curse." The takeaway lesson from his letter: if you decide to speak in the name of the Almighty, don't make so many spelling errors ("...for I shall reek vengince...").

Another inmate alternated between English and Spanish, sometimes in the same paragraph: in Spanish she was sweet and conciliatory, but in English she was a raging lunatic.

But few could match the swashbuckling antics of a kite that dropped out of an economics textbook one dreary afternoon. This letter from one woman to another-unsigned, though all evidence suggested Ms. Brutish-may be the voice America has been waiting for: the diesel-fueled lesbian hybrid of Saul Bellow's Augie March Augie March and Snoop Dogg's and Snoop Dogg's Doggystyle: Doggystyle: What's good Baby girl?!Yo, your kite was right!! Chic, ya off the hook, and on some real s.h.i.+t, I'm feelin' that! But anyhow, I'm never one that's lost for words. A b.i.t.c.h like me can't be stuck on chuck, the boss is lost, for nada. I'm a go-getter, and I go for what I want, and usually, I get what I want. Early!... so you need to be d.i.c.ked down and licked down? Well, ma, I can't help ya with the first one, but I've been told that my skills on the other is SWEEEEEET! Ya need ya estrogen levels balanced by a pro. Make a b.i.t.c.h forget reality, speak in ancient tongues and s.h.i.+t...But like I said, I aint tryin' to step on no one's toes cuz that's not the type of b.i.t.c.h I am. But on the up&up and low low I gots to make a proper attempt though, cuz I'd kick myself in the a.s.s, a.s.s backwardz if I didn't attempt to get the goodz, knowin' that I wanted a piece of the pie...So, ya crown jewels make a n.i.g.g.a rob banks. Only if ya crown jewels s.h.i.+ne ma, like I know they do. An Italian princess like you should never be anything less, always have ya jewels s.h.i.+ne...and if you feel the need to be unfaithful, then it be what it be ma. Go for yourz...now thatz the s.h.i.+t! I like the answers as usual. You keep s.h.i.+t rockin'. Here's some more questions girly girl words. A b.i.t.c.h like me can't be stuck on chuck, the boss is lost, for nada. I'm a go-getter, and I go for what I want, and usually, I get what I want. Early!... so you need to be d.i.c.ked down and licked down? Well, ma, I can't help ya with the first one, but I've been told that my skills on the other is SWEEEEEET! Ya need ya estrogen levels balanced by a pro. Make a b.i.t.c.h forget reality, speak in ancient tongues and s.h.i.+t...But like I said, I aint tryin' to step on no one's toes cuz that's not the type of b.i.t.c.h I am. But on the up&up and low low I gots to make a proper attempt though, cuz I'd kick myself in the a.s.s, a.s.s backwardz if I didn't attempt to get the goodz, knowin' that I wanted a piece of the pie...So, ya crown jewels make a n.i.g.g.a rob banks. Only if ya crown jewels s.h.i.+ne ma, like I know they do. An Italian princess like you should never be anything less, always have ya jewels s.h.i.+ne...and if you feel the need to be unfaithful, then it be what it be ma. Go for yourz...now thatz the s.h.i.+t! I like the answers as usual. You keep s.h.i.+t rockin'. Here's some more questions girly girl.1. When is ya man getting out of jail?2. Have you ever had a 3some?3. Have you ever had a 4some?4. Would ya ever pose for "Girlz Gone Wild"?5. Can you skip the jail house panties, and just stick with the Georgia peach (straight up and down)?6. Have you ever seen a man cry?7. Does your office s.p.a.ce have room for 2?8. Have you ever had cyber s.e.x?9. Do you see yourself with a future? A different future?10. Can I get a Woop Woop?11. Can we be friends?12. Can we be m.t.j.f.? [more than just friends]13. "Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?"... courtesy of Chris Tucker14. What's ya fave movie?15. What's ya fave flavor?16. You want to smoke an "L" with me?17. You want to smoke the judge who sent you here?Her Secret One night, Martha dropped by to say h.e.l.lo. A hooker hooked into just about everything, Martha was a notorious gossip who would hang out at the library counter, reading aloud from the newspaper's police log and offering a running commentary on the catalog of recent crimes, the vast majority of which were committed by her relatives, close friends, neighbors, and an endless train of acquaintances named "Timmy" and "John John."

"I knew knew that ho was headed to jail!...Oh Christ, not Timmy!...Tony, you that ho was headed to jail!...Oh Christ, not Timmy!...Tony, you dumb f.u.c.k!" dumb f.u.c.k!"

And on it went. It was hard not to like Martha. If she had been remotely trustworthy, I'd have hired her to work the library detail.

That night, Martha leaned in across the counter.

"Hey Arvin," she said. "You wanna know something?" She was smiling like a crocodile.

"Probably not," I replied.

"Your friend, Jessica," she said, using Solitary's Christian name, "she don't come to your cla.s.s no more 'cause she can't look out that window."

"What a shame," I said. "When I teach a cla.s.s on window gazing, I'll sign her right up."

"Yeah, funny. But she's got her reasons."

"Oh really, why?"

"She wants to look out the window cause her son's in the yard. 3-3's in the yard same time as your cla.s.s. Poor girl goes to your cla.s.s to catch a view of him. You get what I'm telling you?"

I must have looked incredulous because Martha straightened her back and placed her hand over her heart, as though she were about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. This woman took her gossip as a solemn duty.

"Honest to G.o.d," she said, carefully enunciating her thick Boston ohwnest ta Gowad ohwnest ta Gowad. "She ain't seen the kid in like ten years or something, and then, like that, her baby boy shows, wearin' blue."

The Man in the Lime-Beige Plaid Suit Jessica's son wasn't the only unexpected arrival. My good friend Yoni had been prison-bound for a long time-possibly his whole life. Like many a rambling man before him, Yoni's adventures ended pitifully by the side of a lonesome Tennessee highway, police flashers ablaze in his rearview mirror. The officer took one look at his car, with its tinted windows and its Support the Troops Support the Troops b.u.mper sticker (placed there in order to curry favor with cops). One look at Yoni's hippie getup, at his roguish dimples. The car was searched-an unfortunate turn of events, as the satchel stashed in the trunk, the one embroidered with a zebra-skin map of Africa, contained enough homegrown to qualify for "intent to sell," a cla.s.s D felony. b.u.mper sticker (placed there in order to curry favor with cops). One look at Yoni's hippie getup, at his roguish dimples. The car was searched-an unfortunate turn of events, as the satchel stashed in the trunk, the one embroidered with a zebra-skin map of Africa, contained enough homegrown to qualify for "intent to sell," a cla.s.s D felony.

Did it matter that Yoni had committed no crime? That the bag, along with the intent to sell its contents, belonged to his new friend, the man sitting in the pa.s.senger seat, a fiftysomething exBlack Panther/out-of-work teacher/subsistence farmer? Of course it didn't matter. That was for a judge to decide. Cops have a different way of doing things. As the old Southern folksong says, The sheriff'll grab ya and the boys will bring you down the next thing you know, son, you're prison bound.

After the arrest, the holding cell, and the arraignment, after bond was posted, after a sleepless summer facing possible jail time, up to a year, Yoni had finally gotten justice. It wasn't simple. For the events of Yoni's life tend to unfold on an Old Testament scale; his G.o.d is an Angry G.o.d. It took driving his jalopy to court directly through Hurricane Katrina, through sideways rain that gave the impression of operating underwater, but his record was finally wiped clean, his mug shot expunged. His name cleared. Again.

Yoni's name had been cleared more times than a table at Big Boy-and each time, ready for the next greasy feast. The man was a glutton for trouble. While living in the Mississippi Delta, where he taught high school English, he had tried his hand at the Southern hospitality thing. When a rifle-toting cowboy drifter, wandering next to the Mississippi River, asked him if there was "anything fun to do in town," Yoni immediately invited the man home for a platonic dinner. The meal ended with the irate, s.e.xually frustrated cowboy exposing himself to Yoni. During his own travels, Yoni saved money by sleeping on park benches instead of in hostels.

And then there was the kind of trouble that hadn't happened yet, the evil seed that might one day yield a poison fruit: writing on a housing application for graduate student housing, for example, that he had a problem with nocturnal enuresis nocturnal enuresis, a.k.a. bedwetting. While this lie achieved his immediate objective, securing a rare single room, he still wonders if one day, down the road, this bedwetting doc.u.ment will somehow end up in the wrong hands. Perhaps a tenure committee, perhaps a congressional committee. When that day comes, he'll need to clear his name once again.

Yoni has lived much of his life under the shadow of false accusations. His slovenly and peculiar ways led a college administrator to interrogate him over the (completely false) charges that he was a heroin addict. On a separate occasion, Yoni was summoned to this same administrator's office, this time accused of a hate crime-again, a terrible misunderstanding. True he'd yelled, in his booming voice, out of his window and into a crowded courtyard of a college dorm, "Hey, Avi, you f.u.c.king f.u.c.king Jew!" But it had been a joke, a Jewish thing, he explained to the administrator. Even at the biological level, Yoni stood falsely accused: he once tested positive, falsely, for syphilis. Jew!" But it had been a joke, a Jewish thing, he explained to the administrator. Even at the biological level, Yoni stood falsely accused: he once tested positive, falsely, for syphilis.

But Yoni was the master of underdog brio. As an overweight Little Leaguer, his record of striking out over twenty times in a row did not prevent him from stepping up to the plate and, like Babe Ruth, grandly pointing to the outfield fence, calling his imminent home run. Years later, after reading an article on Donald Trump in an in-flight magazine, he decided to heed the great man's advice and always wear a tie in professional settings. Yoni was a stalwart optimist.

His great moment would arrive on Jeopardy Jeopardy, in front of nine million viewers. After two rounds the studio audience hadn't exactly turned on him, but they'd undoubtedly written him off. Yoni's goof-ball antics-blowing a lewd kiss and winking into the camera during his introduction, his funny voices, his fist-pumping enthusiasm, his lime-beige plaid sportcoat, Byronic s.h.i.+rt collar, his sagging, belt-less trousers, his scruffiness-had announced that he was performing some sort of personal sideshow. n.o.body, and certainly not his mother sitting in the studio audience, knew what to say when the bantering segment of the show became a nationally televised session of Freudian a.n.a.lysis: ALEX TREBEK: It says here that in college you ran naked around Harvard Yard, wearing only a giant orange wig, during the annual Primal Scream event. And that your It says here that in college you ran naked around Harvard Yard, wearing only a giant orange wig, during the annual Primal Scream event. And that your mother mother was there to watch? was there to watch?YONI: My mother was a supportive mother. As was her friend. And my brother. And my grandmother. My mother was a supportive mother. As was her friend. And my brother. And my grandmother.TREBEK: All of these people ran naked?YONI: No, they watched.TREBEK: What about your grandma?YONI: She was intrigued from the sidelines. Didn't realize how many shapes and sizes...TREBEK: Right, right, okay...

Before the largest audience of his life, Yoni had succeeded at playing the fool. As if to give weight to this role, he'd played two uneven rounds, entering Final Jeopardy in last place, $11,900 behind his opponents. n.o.body in the studio audience believed that this lightweight, this clown in the loud sportcoat, had the mettle. But after the Final Jeopardy think-music had ended and the lights went up, it was Yoni alone who had identified the person on the Warren Commission who later faced a.s.sa.s.sins. Thanks to President Gerald Ford and his would-be a.s.sa.s.sins, Squeaky Fromme and Sara Jane Moore, Yoni was on national television, $25,799 richer, dancing a ludicrous jig as his preppy co-contestants stood by in shock. He'd proved his point: the fool prevails.

But it took a long time to get to that nationally televised jig. Years earlier, Yoni was just a guy out on bail, with a mountain of legal debts, looking for work. After Halloween and the end of his job as a haunted house persona-a malevolent German scientist-Yoni had applied for gigs as a fruit vendor, a street musician, a bicycle tour guide, a Dunkin Donuts guy, a bar mitzvah tutor, a stripper-and secured all but the last three positions. But the money was never right, and the job search continued.

As luck would have it, the prison at which I worked had an opening. After waiting for his criminal record to be cleared, and allowing his system to rid itself of any illicit residue, he shaved and came in for an interview.

One sunny afternoon, a few weeks later, mere months after he'd barely eluded prison time, Yoni strode through the hallway door to the yard, walked past the guards, and threw open the prison library door. He marched in, a contractor's ID dangling from his s.h.i.+rt, a big ironic smile on his face.

"Whaddup up, pimp," he said, and gave me a goofy fist b.u.mp. This delighted the a.s.sembled library regulars.

"This your boy?" asked Fat Kat, with a big grin.

"I think so," so," said Dice. said Dice.

"Um," I said, "guys, please meet Yoni, he's the new 'Life Skills instructor.'"

The Katrina Hustle This was about the time when I found myself in the sallyport-the little limbo between the prison's front double security doors (never open at the same time)-crowded in with six or seven staff members. An older woman flashed me the overly familiar smile that invariably prefaces unsolicited comments from strangers. I get these a lot.

"You a volunteer?" she asked.

"No," I said, "staff."

I flashed her my s.h.i.+ny ID, the one with the photo of my incriminating haircut and befuddled expression.

"Hey," she said again, after it was evident that the officer in central control was taking his time giving us clearance. "I thought we had child, uh, labor laws in this country." She could barely get this comment out before expelling a smoker's guffaw. "What are you-twelve, thirteen years old?" This prompted grins, even among those who'd been pretending not to hear.

For the first time, I'd decided to heed the prison's "Dress-Down Friday" policy. (A policy for staff-if inmates dressed down any further, they'd be wearing loincloths.) I was sporting jeans, a Red Sox T-s.h.i.+rt, and chucks on my feet. This apparently lent me the look of an overgrown tween. It would be the last time I'd be observing Dress-Down Friday.

But the wheezy woman in the sallyport wasn't alone. I was one of the youngest, and greenest, staff members. People seemed to enjoy reminding me of this. After about the seventh person had told me to be careful-to not trust anyone-I began to wonder if there was something particularly naive looking about me.

I needed to gain some prison respect. Yet, try as I might, I couldn't escape the impulses of my education: that the world's problems demanded the old college effort. Yes, I would do this the Harvard way. I would spearhead an initiative spearhead an initiative.

I spliced some glossy magazine photos of Hurricane Katrina refugees and designed a nice propaganda poster with it. There had been a good deal of outrage among the inmates at the government's indifference toward poor black communities in New Orleans. I would challenge inmates to do something beyond complain. To donate money to hurricane relief and to command respect for having done so.

When I proposed the idea to Patti, she balked. It hadn't occurred to me that raising money from inmates, especially as a collective, was actually a radical concept, not to mention a potential logistical nightmare. But these, I insisted, were mere technical problems. I'll stay on top of it I'll stay on top of it, I a.s.sured her, supremely confident. I could tell she didn't feel comfortable with the idea. But, probably not wanting to dampen my enthusiasm, she gave me the green light. Or rather, the yellow light, which in Boston means slam on the gas.

Up went the poster. I rigged up a special consent form with which an inmate could authorize the transfer of money directly from his prison account to the Red Cross Katrina Fund. The consent form was photocopied as a receipt. I made up lists of inmates by prison unit. I perfected my pitch and made flyers that were to be dispersed throughout the prison.

Everything was going well until a senior staffer, a jolly linebacker-sized caseworker with a heavy black leather jacket, a thick curly mop, and even thicker Greek accent, walked into the library, clutching one of the flyers. His smile beamed through his gum-chewing.

"Eez theez for real?" he asked, lifting up the flyer.

I confirmed that theez theez indeed was quite real. indeed was quite real.

"Ho boy," he said shaking his head, laughing. "Goo' luck, my friend."

He gave me a friendly slap on the shoulder that almost knocked me square out of my Rockports.

The reaction from staff was nearly unanimous. Another caseworker, on his daily newspaper break in the library, asked me what inmate donors would get in return. A sense of agency A sense of agency, I theorized. A faint grin crossed his face as he awaited the punch line. When it didn't come, he burst out laughing.

"That," he said, "is priceless." priceless."

After the caseworker left, still chuckling to himself, Coolidge appeared. Sitting nearby, poring over a volume of the Ma.s.sachusetts General Laws Annotated Ma.s.sachusetts General Laws Annotated, he had overheard this exchange.

"Don't listen to them," he said. "You know you're doing a good thing."